


The Lights are Out

by iniquiticity



Category: Baseball RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: M/M, New York Yankees, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-12-06 17:43:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11605650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iniquiticity/pseuds/iniquiticity
Summary: “Sometimes I don’t think either of us would know love if it slapped us in the face.”





	The Lights are Out

**Author's Note:**

> written in 2010.

In the stadium, they spoke about Derek in hushed, reverent voices. The stadium workers were not the fans, even if they were, one and all, Yankee diehards; they would have cheered for Derek every at-bat even if he struck out ten or a hundred times in a row. They would have cheered for Derek if he missed a routine play, if he blew a game, if he threw off his glove and stomped off the field in a fit. They would have held off riots for him, even if he deserved them. 

Because Jeter would arrive hours early, while they were setting up the thousands of hot dogs that would need to be cooked and the hundreds of pounds of mustard that would be squirted out, and he knew enough of every language to ask how the kids were, and if they were getting by, if their rent had gone up. He could hardly hold a conversation, but he knew the basics, and he always asked, and offered everything he could offer. He was - and had been, for a long time - set for life, and it seemed that he would have given anything to set up the people here like he was. He would ask about their parents or grandchildren, or their other non-baseball hobbies, about subway delays and city traffic. And when the time came for him to do what he had to do, he would bid them good luck, and tell them he hoped the fans were not too obnoxious, and they would pray every game that he would succeed, get the game winner, make the stellar play. 

So to deny Derek Jeter anything within the confines of Yankee Stadium was nothing short of heresy. So when he asked for the main keys to the stadium, they were handed over without a second thought, and the owner of the keys simply requested that he return them to the owner’s address as soon as possible. He said thank you and asked about the sick aunt, and promised that he would. 

* 

The new Yankee Stadium doesn’t quite feel like the old one. For Derek, this stadium doesn’t have that residual victory, despite their 2009 championship. Tino and Paulie didn’t play here. This stadium wasn’t home to Aaron Boone or Bucky Dent. Coney never pitched here. Wells never pitched here. There has never been a perfect game thrown from this mound. The magic of the late nineties has never touched home plate. It’s not that he doesn’t love this stadium and everything about it, just that it isn’t the old Yankee Stadium. The place will become seasoned in memories like the old one, but it’s not at the moment, and that’s what Derek misses.

For Alex, it’s different. For Alex, old Yankee Stadium tasted like failure and great seasons followed by atrocious postseasons. For Alex, old Yankee Stadium is being booed even when he’s hitting over .300. For Alex, that place is the 2004 ALCS. The new stadium is his bright future, is 2009, is finally knowing he can do it, finally knowing he’s done it. 

What they have, Alex doesn’t call it love. Sure, he could call it that if he wanted, but it really doesn’t have anything to do with loving something. What it’s about is safety, and comfort, and the secrecy you can’t get when you’re Derek Jeter or Alex Rodriguez. Everyone else would tell, would look at them with those obsessed fangirl eyes, would bow at their feet like servants. Everyone else throws themselves at them, but it’s not what they want. For Derek and Alex, a good, warm body, one that won’t try to do to much or not do enough, is good. For Derek and Alex, someone that doesn’t want to talk about baseball like they know how it feels to play would be a plus. Someone that isn’t thinking about how it’s so great that they’re here, with Derek or Alex.

And for them, that’s each other. So what if they’re both guys, or both ballplayers, or both Yankees? It’s just them, having found a spark of friendship that might have almost been extinguished once before, about pleasuring the body without worrying the mind. Of course they get photographed with pretty girls met in bars, but when Alex meets Derek’s eyes across the room, they can both tell neither girl will be near them tonight. No, Alex will be in Derek’s arms, because Derek won’t kiss and tell, won’t judge him, won’t tell him he was a cheater or that he’s an overpaid dick. And Alex won’t be making those wide, astonished eyes at Derek, in awe of his presence, of his personality; no, Alex treats Derek like a human being, like the flesh-and-blood Derek Jeter, not like his Big-Apple sized reputation. 

Derek makes copies of the stadium keys even though he shouldn’t, but no one denies him in Manhattan, and especially not in Yankee Stadium. One day he just stops asking for the keys, and no one questions. The security guys notice holes in the security camera footage. Derek tells them it’s nothing. They stop noticing it.

Derek and Alex, they christen this place with their sweat, semen and lust. They fuck on the pitcher’s mound and on the basepath between second and third; they fuck in the visitor’s dugout and clubhouse; they fuck in the bullpens, on home plate, in the seats where the Bleacher Creatures sit. They fuck on the dugout roof (Alex’s favorite place) in the eerie, silent emptiness of Yankee Stadium at two AM, and they revel in the privacy and the secrecy, like this is their whole world and for just a few hours, it is only theirs, and they don’t have to share with anyone - not the rest of the team, not the fans, not the press, not the world. 

“I don’t care if this isn’t love,” says Alex, one day, as he’s lying naked on the visitor’s dugout roof, panting for breath. There’s a white splash across his stomach and sweat shining on his skin in the hot New York August. Derek is lying on his back next him, also catching his breath. 

“Yeah?” says Derek. 

“Love got me tabloids, crap, and a divorce,” Alex reaches over, puts a hand over Derek’s, “And all you’ve got me is peace and quiet and calm.” 

Derek rolls over, curls his body onto Alex’s. “Thanks,” he says. 

“Besides,” Alex continues, kissing the top of Derek’s head, “Sometimes I don’t think either of us would know love if it slapped us in the face.” 

“And how did you come to that conclusion?” Derek’s smiling against him, tracing little nameless patterns into his skin. 

“Well, who says they love us?” Alex slowly wriggles away, completes a little athletic maneuver that involves him jumping from the dugout roof, to the dugout railing, to the field. “For me, it’s probably sixteen-year-old girls and people who hated me in 2003. I am not the great Derek Jeter. If I suck, they decide to hate me. I mean, hell, if I suck this postseason, I will never hear the end of it. I’m just realizing now what it’s actually like to be, you know, liked in New York.” 

Derek snorts, and laughs, and slips off the dugout roof into the dugout, even though he knows the dugout floor is not really clean enough for bare feet. Even so, he walks up the step, watches the lean, tan lines of Alex’s back as the other man walks up to the painted interlocked NY on the field. 

“And you, well, you’re Derek Jeter. How can anyone not love you? Mr. Yankee. The Captain. Mr. November. The young, bright head of the dynasty. People would lose arms and legs to touch you. How can anyone love either of us? We’re too famous. If they knew about our annoying side habits - like that way you organize your cleats, the way I chew on pens...” 

“That crunching sound is more annoying than you know,” says Derek, grinning. Alex laughs, slipping his arms around Derek’s waist and holding him close, nuzzling his ear. Derek’s always been leaner than him, all wired muscle and skill and the quick reflexes required of a shortstop. Now that Alex plays third base, he’s gained a little muscle. Sometimes, he tries to remember playing shortstop, but it seems like that was a million years ago. He tries to remember playing outside of New York, tries to remember rainy Seattle and hot, miserable Texas, but all he can see in his thoughts are the ninety-degree days of a New York summer and the forty-degree days of April and year after year of October baseball.

“What are you thinking about?” Derek asks. 

“Nothing,” Alex replies, tracing his hands over Derek’s back, delighting in the feel of the muscles shifting under his skin. 

“Liar,” replies Derek, but there’s no force behind it, and he closes his eyes and leans slightly on Alex, pressing himself against that muscular chest. He makes a small, pleased sound, nuzzling into the hand Alex presses against his cheek. 

Kissing Derek is familiar, comfortable. It’s like finally entering into his apartment, knowing there are no cameras and no one here to tell him what to do, how to act, tell him that his personality - no matter what he does with it - is stilted and fake-looking. Derek’s mouth is not demanding, not angry, not going to desert him. It’s like the rest of Derek, at peace with himself, slow but competitive, determined. Derek’s hands find his sides, don’t quite hold him as they do just rest, like they fit perfectly above his hips, which they do.

“Lay down,” Derek says against his lips, and Alex obeys, lying on his back in the white-painted grass. It tickles at his thighs, scratches against his biceps uncomfortably, but he forgets about it when Derek tangles their legs together and kisses him. When he pulls away, he rests on his hands and knees above Alex, and he’s fucking beautiful, all lean, glistening skin reflecting in the New York moonlight, hiding all the flaws and imperfections of age and replacing them with a sort of glow, the aura of the Yankee captain turned visible. He looks a little like god, looks a little like a World Series victory, looks a little like success. But mostly he’s just Derek, grinning a slight smile, white teeth gleaming.

The grass is suddenly comfortable under him, holding him up, keeping him together. It’s his home turf. It feels like it. 

“You’re fucking beautiful,” says Derek, and Alex laughs. 

“Was thinking the same thing about you.” 

Alex wraps his arms around Derek and tugs him back down. He’s half hard but not particularly horny, content to lie here in the House That Derek is in the Process of Building, with said Derek on top of him. 

After a while Derek stands, and Alex sits up to watch the muscles in Derek’s calves shift with every step. Alex can’t see him, but he imagines Derek leaning down, reaching into the secret little compartment in the bat-holder, pulling out the tiny little tube of lube they keep in there. Is it dangerous? Oh, hell yes. Is it convenient, reeks of easy deniability, and has remained hidden for a year and a half? Yes.

Alex leans back, spreading his legs, closing his eyes, relaxing himself. He smiles a bit and makes a pleased noise at the sound of grass crunching under Derek’s approaching footsteps. One of Derek’s calloused fingers enters him, and it feels good, a little tight, always, but good. He pushes his hips against Derek, groans. The shortstop uses a second finger, and okay, there’s a little pain, but it’s a good kind of pain, a sort of stretch he wants. Derek smiles between his legs and scissors his fingers, and Alex’s toes curl and his back arches. 

Derek knows just how to get him going. They’ve had a lot of practice.

He grips chunks of grass, feels the dirt against his fingernails. Derek works him slowly, drives him crazy, makes him squirm and writhe against the grass. He’s not sure if he’s going to be bruised or scraped or just sore, but he’s not really thinking about it at the moment, just gasping and making wordless, groaning pleas. Eventually Derek pulls away his fingers, and Alex sits up, leaning on his elbows, chest heaving. Jeter is looking at him with those ballplayer-intense eyes, the ones that won Gold Gloves, that captured the love of the nastiest city in the world. The wearer of those eyes could bat under his body weight, and the city would shake it’s head and go, ‘He’ll get out of it. He’s the captain.’ 

“On your hands and knees,” says Derek, his voice low and hoarse with lust. He reaches between Alex’s legs to give his dick a few perfunctory strokes, and Alex chews on his own lip and sighs. Then, he rolls over, forearms pressing dents into the white-and-green grass, and when he opens his eyes again, stares at some part of the logo he wears on his chest, on his sleeves, sewed into his heart. 

Derek enters him slowly, torturously, holds his hips in those good ballplayer’s hands and wriggles in inch by inch, until Alex is hissing and sucking in breaths and muttering curses, until he can hear Derek gasping at what must be the tight heat of his body. He knows how Derek feels about this, knows that this command is like the command on the field, the command he loves. And Alex loves relinquishing it - this is all Derek’s show, and he is a nobody, a nameless hole, and in their private Yankee Stadium, no one knows his name or his face, and that feels good. 

Finally, Derek’s all the way in, and it feel so wonderful, all that hot, perfect pressure within him, the feeling of slick skin pressing up against him, balls-deep. They’d used protection in the beginning, but one day Derek had sat down next to him and mimed a bat-handle grip, the sign that said he wanted to talk about something that wasn’t baseball, but he wanted to fool the audience into thinking it was. 

“Unless you’re seeing someone else, I think we should, you know, just get rid of it,” said Derek. 

“I’m not,” said Alex, “Just you. Good idea.” 

So here they were, together, with Derek’s good, muscular chest pressed against his back, Derek’s breath a series of heaving pants in his ear, Derek’s dick in his ass. 

“Move,” he says, barely getting it out. 

“Say please,” gasps Derek, into his ear, and one of the hands on his hips moves to wrap around his dick. Alex finds himself momentarily unable to think even the most basic of thoughts.

“Move, please,” he grinds out. Derek laughs, a puff of air that sizzles through his body. 

He moves. He moves and it feels like home runs, feels like a stellar play, feels like that day he signed with the Yankees. He moves and Alex groans at the sensation, pressure and heat and flesh, Derek’s hand on him, the callouses of his fingers just rough enough. He moves and Alex presses back, ignoring the twinging in his surgically repaired hip, because it’s just another day-to-day baseball pain. He finds the perfect counter-rhythm, though, and Derek shifts just a fraction of an inch, and all those day-to-day pains are gone, consumed by the sudden explosion of sensations. He may or may not be on fire; he may or may not exist; he might wake up tomorrow and baseball will be gone, but right now he doesn’t care, and it’s because of Derek’s dick, Derek’s pounding hips, Derek’s hands (one digging into his hip, one pumping him erratically), Derek’s breath in his ear, Derek’s teeth on his earlobe, Derek’s lean chest on his back. He is between the logo and the captain of his team, and it finally, finally feels like his team, and he finds it impossible to believe there is anything better than this.


End file.
